


In the House, a Heartbeat

by shellikybookie



Category: British Actor RPF, X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: AU, Little Red Riding Hood with werewolves, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-23 19:51:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1577462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shellikybookie/pseuds/shellikybookie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/pseuds/significantowl">significantowl</a> who wanted "Little Red Riding Hood".</p>
<p>When James' grandmother decides to sell the little cottage in the woods, James goes to pay it one last visit, but he isn't as alone as he thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [significantowl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/gifts).



Gravel crunched under his tires as James turned off the highway. The road — if it could be called a road — was shaded on both sides by trees. Their branches stretched across, reaching for each other. It was like driving into a tunnel of sun-dappled green. It had been years since James had a chance to visit this place, but he remembered summers spent here. He remembered walking down this road with his gran, picking the gooseberries that grew in the ditches, carrying them back up to the cottage in baskets so Gran could make jam.

James had fond memories of this road, the cottage, the big warm kitchen, so when Gran had rung him to tell him, regretfully, that she was selling the old place, James had offered to pack it all up. It would give him a chance to say goodbye, he said.

At the end of the road, the trees opened up on a little clearing where the cottage nestled. It was just as James remembered. Oh, the whitewash was maybe a little dingy, and the thatch could stand replacing, but that was more than James had time to remedy. He’d only planned to be here a few days — just time enough to sort through everything and give the place a good clean. He’d arranged for a truck to come for the furniture on Saturday. By then, he would have decided what was going and what was staying with the house.

James pulled up beside the back shed, and he saw the first problem. “What in hell…?” he muttered, getting out of the car to inspect the shed door. The padlock was still secure, for all the good it did, but the wood was splintered, deeply scored as though an animal had been scratching at it, trying to get inside. From the looks of things, it had succeeded, too, because there was a hole in the boards big enough to admit a small child, and the ground had been dug up to make the opening wider. “Perfect,” James said. Watch there be a bloody badger in the kitchen. And who knew how long it’d had to get comfortable. He pressed his ear against the door, but he didn't hear anything moving inside.

James unlocked the door and gingerly pulled it open. He counted it as a good sign when nothing rushed out at him, but all the same, he picked up the spade that was leaning against the wall just inside the door. The screen on the kitchen door was torn, and seeing that, James revised his expectations down a notch. Using the spade held out in front of him like a lance, James nudged the door open and stepped inside. At first glance, the kitchen was more tidy than he’d expected, and he didn't know if he should be relieved or suspicious. There was still no sign of the animal.

A shuffling sound to his right made James whip around. He saw movement, and swung the spade without thinking at the same moment that an alarmed voice shouted, “Whoa! Whoa!”

The man — and it was a man, not a badger — jumped back out of range of the spade and threw both hands up in the air. James, heart hammering, didn't lower the spade. “Who the _fuck_ are you?” he demanded.

“Take it easy!” the man said, still holding up his hands in a placating gesture.

“Take it easy yourself!” James retorted. “How did you get in here?”

“You’re… James, right?” The man took a step forward and stopped when James pointed the spade at him.

“I don’t know you. Do I know you?”

“No. That is, the old lady… your grandmother? I watch the place for her. She mentioned you a time or two,” the man explained.

“She never mentioned you,” James answered, but he let the spade dip down to the floor.

“Michael,” the man said, holding out his hand. It was large and rough, his arm long and corded with muscle.

James shook his hand. “Sorry about the spade,” he said, embarrassed now by his panicked reaction.

“Sorry about the door,” Michael said in response. “I found it like that, and I haven’t had a chance to fix it yet. But I checked the place over. Whatever got in, it’s not here now.”

“Was there much mess?” James asked. There was a smell — he hadn't noticed it at first — a wild smell, like the musky fur of an animal. It was faint, but there.

“Aside from the door?” Michael shrugged. “Nothing serious. And that — I could get the materials to patch it next time I go into town.”

“Don’t worry about it,” James said hastily. “I’ll be going in myself for a few groceries. I’m going to be here for the next few days.”

“Oh. Well, I’ll leave it to you, then,” Michael gave an easy smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes, and James felt inexplicably guilty. “Listen,” he said. “Thanks. You know, for keeping an eye on the place.”

“Sure,” Michael said, shuffling a few steps towards the door with its torn screen. He paused on the doorstep. “Maybe I’ll come by later to check on you.” The smile again — this time an honest grin, showing an alarming lot of teeth.

“You live close by, then?” James asked, and immediately felt foolish because, yes, of course he must. But Michael was gracious. “Up that way,” he said, nodding his head in the direction of the wooded hills.

“I didn't know there was anything up that way but trees,” James said. When he was a boy, his gran had been forever telling him not to go into the woods. “There are wolves in the woods,” she’d warned him. Now, of course, he knew that wasn't so; there were no wolves in Britain anymore. But, at the age of ten, he’d believed her, and he’d made sure always to keep to the road.

“There isn't, much.” Michael’s smile was sardonic. “But that suits me.”

* * *

When Michael had gone, James took stock of the place. It wasn't large — two rooms upstairs and two down, and the tiny washroom that had been added on later when the plumbing had been put in — but a lot of life had been lived in it. James spent some time wandering, just looking at all the pictures hanging on the walls and smiling at the memories they conjured up. Feeling nostalgic, he took the big photo album down from its shelf in the corner, and he sat in his gran’s favourite chair next to the pot-bellied wood stove and flipped through the pages, each neatly labelled in his grandmother’s small, precise hand. When the light failed, he switched on a lamp, and it was only then that he realised how long he’d spent reminiscing. It was already — he looked up at the pendulum clock ticking placidly away on the wall — 7 o’clock, and he hadn't got anything done.

Sighing, James closed the album and put it back on its shelf. It was too late, now, to go into town. The shops would all be closed. That made supper a rather iffy prospect, but he went into the kitchen with faint hope. The refrigerator was empty and dark, and James plugged it back in so that it would be cold by the time he did manage to buy food to fill it. He opened the pantry and found flour, sugar, salt, and tinned tomatoes, and not much else. In a canister, he found some dry spaghetti and a little optimism returned.

Just then, a sudden knock on the kitchen door made him jump. He fumbled with the canister, and dry pasta showered everywhere. “Sorry,” Michael said on the other side of the torn screen. “I didn't mean to startle you.”

“No, that’s all right. Come in,” James said, crouching down to start picking up bits of spaghetti. Could he salvage them, or…?

Michael got down beside him to help, using the side of his hand to sweep the scattered noodles into a pile. “Bin, or — ?” Michael asked, and James sighed. “Bin. The broken bits, anyway.” He stood up with a handful, but something on the kitchen table drew his eye. He caught the impression of something heaped, red and skinless, and he gasped. Michael turned his head to look. “Oh, right,” he said. “I meant to say. I brought that for you. I didn't hear your car on the road. I figured you didn't get into town, so.”

“Oh…” James answered belatedly. “Thank you. It’s, ah…”

“Rabbit,” Michael supplied, and with a slightly amused smile. “You don’t hunt, do you.”

“Er, no,” James replied, which made Michael chuckle, but not unkindly. “I thought it might make a stew,” Michael offered, but James said, “I’m afraid I haven’t got any vegetables.”

Michael only grinned cheerfully with all his teeth. “I don’t care much for them, anyway.”

They ended up pan-frying the rabbit with the tinned tomatoes and eating it with what spaghetti they’d managed to save. It wasn't haute-cuisine, but it wasn't awful. Afterward, they washed up together, jostling each other comfortably at the small sink. Though they’d only just met, James found he enjoyed Michael’s company, and he surprised himself by saying, “You should come back tomorrow once I've got some proper food in the house.”

“Asking me on a second date?” Michael asked with a crooked smile, and James laughed in response, but it was a nervous, skittering laugh as though he wasn't sure he should be. “Something like that,” he answered, taking refuge in the joke which, a small excited part of of himself told him, might not have been a joke at all. _Is he…? Does he know I’m…?_ He squashed that part down ruthlessly.

“Tomorrow, then,” Michael said with a glint of something more than just amusement in his eyes.

* * *

James made up the big feather bed in his gran’s room, piling it high with quilts because there was no wood for the stove, and the nights could get chilly even in September. Before midnight, the wind picked up and made the trees whisper secretively. James slept fitfully, drifting in and out. Once, on the edge of sleep, he thought he heard the low, belling howl of a wolf in the distance. _The wind_ , he told himself, and snuggled more deeply under the quilts. 


	2. Chapter 2

Morning was rough with no coffee in the house; his gran was a believer in tea, and James made do, but he was more motivated than ever to get to the shops. The drive was pleasant, and on the way in, out of curiosity, James kept an eye out for a turn off that might lead to Michael’s place, but all he saw were grassy deer tracks. But, come to think of it, Michael had no car either time James had seen him, so he must have come walking through the woods. It might be that there was another road on the other side, but it was simply faster to cut through on foot rather than go all the way around. James thought nothing more of it.

His first stop was the hardware shop, where he bought plywood and wire mesh. He wanted the door fixed as soon as possible in case whatever had gotten in decided to be bold and came back. At the Co-op, he bought eggs, bread, milk, and — thank Christ — coffee. He got some carrots, potatoes, and onions, and picked up a nice roasting chicken for dinner with Michael. Shit! Dinner with Michael. James felt a stab of anxiety, anticipation - he wasn't sure - and he decided not to examine it too closely, but he spent fifteen minutes standing in the aisle, dithering over a bottle of wine before blindly grabbing a red and a white and telling himself sternly to stop being an idiot. At the cash, he remembered to ask for spare boxes, and left with a dozen or so, feeling accomplished.

On the way back, James met Michael coming up the drive. Michael stopped when he heard James’ tires on the gravel, and he turned, waited for James to pull up beside him. “Morning,” he said when James rolled down his window.

“Good morning,” James answered. “I wasn't expecting you until this evening. I've just been into town.”

“So I see,” Michael said. “I was lonesome all on my own. I thought I’d keep you company. Give you a hand with the door.”

_He… missed me?_ James’ heart warmed a little, and he broke into a sunny smile. “Hop in,” he said, and Michael went around the car to slide into the passenger seat beside him. Michael’s legs were long ( _shapely, strong - shut up!_ James cut off the internal flow of favourable adjectives) and his knees bent high so that he almost looked to be perching more than sitting. “Sorry,” James said. “I don’t usually have passengers. The seat goes back. There’s a lever down — yeah, that’s it.” Michael found it on his own and pushed the seat far back so that he could stretch out comfortably. _Tall_ , James noted admiringly, not for the first time.

Back at the cottage, Michael helped him unload the groceries. “What are the boxes for?” he asked, and James realised that he’d never mentioned why he was here. He realised, too, that now he had one more regret about letting this place go. “My gran’s selling the place,” he explained. “Doesn't want to be out in the middle of the woods at her age, she says. Anything could happen.” 

“She’s right,” Michael agreed, but a pensive frown creased his brow ever so slightly. “Have _you_ thought of keeping the place?” he asked, and James gave a wistful sigh. “I’d love to, but with my salary, I can’t carry two properties. My work’s in London. It just wouldn't be practical. It’s a shame. I have a lot of good memories of this place.” 

Silence stretched between them into significance until Michael broke it, taking a brisk tone. “Well, if you’re going to sell the place, best see what we can do about that door.” 

“There should be a toolbox in the shed,” James answered in the same tone, shaking off the remnant of… whatever had just passed between them. _Missed opportunities_ , he thought. 

James put the matter forcibly out of his mind and went to work. He decided it would be best to start at the top and work his way down, so he spent the morning sweeping the upstairs, washing windows, and packing away linens in boxes labelled BEDROOM. From the shed, he heard the sound of a nail gun, and knew that Michael had things in hand. 

By unspoken consensus, they broke for lunch after noon. James made fried egg sandwiches which they ate together on the front porch — James sitting in his grandmother’s rocking chair, and Michael in a chair he’d dragged out from the kitchen. The day was overcast, but warm, and the humid air smelled of sweet grass. Michael showed James how he’d patched the shed door. He’d even attempted to fill in the dug out trench. James could see the overlapping impressions where Michael had used the flat of the spade to pack the earth down, and was glad all over again that he hadn't used it to whack Michael upside the head when they’d first met. “I appreciate it,” James said, and Michael beamed. 

After lunch, Michael helped him pack up the photos. James needed Michael’s impersonal practicality to stop him from wasting another day in maudlin reminiscence. They all went into the box labelled MEMORIES. “You look happy,” Michael remarked once, his expression curiously soft. In his hands, he cradled a framed photograph of James as a boy with a gap-toothed grin, hanging upside down from a tree branch like a monkey, gravity making his shaggy hair stand on end and his jumper bunch up under his chin. James came to stand beside Michael, touching a finger to his exposed belly in the photograph. “I was.” 

Michael shifted his weight a little, and his shoulder pressed against James’, warm and solid. It was such a slight movement, it might have been nothing, but James was heartened by it. He thought he felt Michael’s thumb brush the inside of his wrist, and he swallowed heavily, his lips parting on a question... but then the clock struck the hour with four startling chimes, and he lost his nerve. “I’d better get the chicken started,” he said, and fled into the kitchen. 

Michael didn't follow right away, for which James was grateful, and he distracted himself from the memory of Michael’s warm touch by reaching inside the cold, clammy cavity of the chicken to pull out the gizzards, which was as unpleasantly effective as anything. Michael did come sauntering in, then, but by then, James had himself under control. Mostly. “I wasn't thinking,” he said. “Could you get me a saucepan out of the cupboard? My hands are all raw chicken.” Michael did, and James scooped the chicken innards into the pot. “Ta.” 

Leaning casually against the kitchen table, Michael reached into the pot and fished out the chicken heart. He popped it into his mouth raw like it was a piece of candy, and James made a sound of disgust. “I can think of at least half a dozen reasons, just off the top of my head, why you shouldn't do that,” he said, and Michael, chewing slowly, gave a close-mouthed smile. “If you go looking for reasons not to do things, you’ll find them,” he said, and James got the distinct impression that they weren't talking about raw chicken anymore. Michael didn't press, but he continued to find reasons to be in James’ space — bumping his hip at the counter, reaching around him for a knife instead of asking him to move. James was becoming flustered, hyper-aware of Michael’s presence at all times. 

At dinner, he drank too much wine, letting it mellow him to a dangerous degree. Outside, it had started to rain, finally, and its steady patter was like a hushed heartbeat in the house. “I’ll drive you home,” James offered, and Michael said, “You’re drunk.” 

“Not that drunk,” James answered, but drunk enough to say, “Stay.” Michael regarded him for a long moment in what might have been indecision, and James said again clearly, emphatically: “Stay.” 

They left the dishes in the sink, and Michael followed James up the narrow, creaking stairs. The upper floor was in darkness, and James made his way by memory to the room that was his grandmother’s. He turned, silhouetted by the window, to see Michael, a dark outline behind him, his eyes reflecting points of light. _Like a cat_ , James thought, and more fancifully, _Like a thing at home in the night-forest_. “Turn on the light,” Michael said. “I want to see you.” 

James fumbled for the switch on the bedside lamp, almost knocking it over in his haste. The light flicked on and James winced at the sudden brightness, but Michael didn't. His eyes were large and luminous, full of the lamp light, and they rested unabashedly on James. Under that gaze, he felt naked already. 

In one long stride, Michael closed the distance between them. His head bowed, and he said, “I’ve wanted to do this since I saw you,” and then his mouth covered James’, and all thought of a reply flew out of his head. James responded eagerly, opening to the insistent probing of Michael’s tongue. Michael kissed him like he wanted to devour him, and James would have been happy to let him. Michael’s hands clasped possessively on James’ hips, and he pulled them together, grinding until James broke their kiss with a moan. 

James’ hands crawled up under Michael’s shirt, seeking more contact, and Michael broke away just long enough to strip the shirt off over his head and toss it aside. James ran his hands appreciatively over the hard muscle of Michael’s chest and stomach, his broad shoulders and long arms. “Jesus, you’re strong,” he said, and Michael grinned with a white flash of teeth. 

“So much the better.” 

He wrapped his arms around James’ waist and lifted him, bearing him down backwards onto the feather mattress, and James crossed his legs over Michael’s back, pulling him down with him. Even through his jeans, he could feel how hard Michael was, pressing against him, and he wanted that barrier gone. Michael seemed to be of the same mind, because he had James’ fly open, and was already trying to shove his jeans down as far as their position would allow. James lifted his hips and straightened his legs so that Michael could peel them off. 

The feel of rough denim against his sensitised skin was too much, and James said, “You, too,” hooking his fingers into the waistband of Michael’s jeans. His fingers tangled with Michael’s, trying to unbuckle his belt, until Michael pushed his hands away. A moment later, he heard the soft _whump_ of cloth hitting the floor, and then Michael was pressed against him again, so hard and hot, and, God, he was perfect! 

“I don’t have anything,” Michael murmured almost into James’ ear between kisses, and James said, “I don’t care.” 

Michael traced James’ lips with a light touch. “Spit,” he said, and James, feeling an illicit thrill, spat into his palm, only to gasp a moment later when Michael’s large hand closed around both their cocks, rubbing them together. James’ hips bucked, thrusting into Michael’s hand, thrusting against Michael’s cock, the slide made slick with his own saliva. “Yesss,” Michael hissed in pleasure, and he started stroking with a rough rhythm that had James’ hips rising off the bed to meet him. 

“Turn over,” Michael said. His voice was husky with desire, and James thought, _Yes, do it now. Fuck me_. He was prepared for the pain, and he didn't care. He rolled onto his stomach, spreading his thighs and raising his hips shamelessly. Michael’s arms looped around his waist, and he pulled James back against him. James heard MIchael spit again to slick himself, and he braced himself when he felt the slippery head of Michael’s cock nudge between his cheeks. But that was all. James let out a trembling breath he hadn't realised he’d been holding when Michael’s cock slid against his again, between his thighs. “Close your legs,” Michael whispered, and James did, enjoying the harsh groan Michael gave when James’ thighs squeezed him. Michael’s hand found his cock again, and then James was groaning, too, as Michael pumped him in time with his thrusts. 

Michael’s other arm curled around James’ shoulder, pulling him up to brace himself on his hands so that Michael could attack his neck and shoulders with hungry kisses. “Your teeth!” James hissed when he felt them scrape along the sensitive nape of his neck, and Michael responded with the soft apology of his tongue, but James said, “No… I want them.” 

Michael’s reply was wordless, but ardent. His teeth found the soft juncture of James’ neck and shoulder, and bit down hard — hard enough to make James cry out. His hips bucked once, twice, and then he was coming hard, hot and wet between James’ thighs. James made a keening sound when Michael’s hand tightened its grip on his aching cock, jerking him roughly and mercilessly to his own orgasm. Michael continued to thrust against him, slowly, agonizingly, until James gasped out, “No, stop. It’s too much.” Only then did Michael let him sink back down onto the mattress, weak-limbed and panting. 

The top-most quilt was spattered with his come. He was sticky with Michael’s. “My great-grandmother made this,” James remarked dazedly, fingering the quilt, and didn't quite have the energy or the inclination to be as ashamed as he felt he ought to be about that. He had never managed to get his shirt off, he realised, and he removed it now, using it to wipe ineffectually at the quilt and between his legs. He would have to wash it, anyway. For the time being, he tossed it onto the floor, and he felt the bed dip as Michael lay down beside him. James rolled over to face him. “I don’t usually do this, you know,” he said. 

“What’s that?” Michael asked, unperturbed, his voice somnolent with satiation. 

“Strange men,” James answered. 

“Am I so strange?” Michael asked. His eyes were two points of light. _In the forest at night_. 

James switched off the bedside lamp, and they slept. 


	3. Chapter 3

Michael wasn't in bed when James woke up the next morning. Suppressing the small hurt he felt at the absence, James stumbled downstairs to use the shower. Looking at himself in the bathroom mirror, James touched his fingers to the livid imprint of Michael’s teeth on his neck. It was still a little tender to the touch, but James smiled. He wondered what Michael might say when he saw it. He wondered if he could convince him to do it again, and if he should maybe pop by the chemist’s this afternoon, just in case. But Michael wasn’t in the kitchen, either, and the small hurt of earlier blossomed, warring between offense and worry. Michael had started this, James thought resentfully. Was he regretting it already? Or maybe he thought that his welcome might wear out with the wine. James wished he’d thought to ask Michael for his phone number, but he always just seemed to turn up, and it had never occurred to him until now. He realised he didn't even know where Michael lived except the vaguest idea of direction and distance.

Unless…

James jogged back upstairs to rescue his mobile from the bedroom floor where it had fallen out of his pocket last night. _When Michael had pulled his jeans slowly down his legs_. He thumbed it on, cursed when he couldn't get a proper signal. He went back down to the kitchen, and even out into the yard, keeping an eye on the bars. The rain-wet grass soaked his socks and the cuffs off his jeans, but he didn't care. He found a signal, dialed a number.

“Hello, Gran? — Yeah, good. I’m at your place."  
“ — No, no. Everything’s fine. But listen: you don’t happen to have Michael’s number on you, do you? — You know, Michael. The chap who watches the place for you.”  
“ — I don’t know his other name; he didn't tell me. But you must know the one I mean.”

A long, plummeting silence, and then, “Listen, Gran: I’ll call you back. — Don’t worry about it. Just a mix up. I’ll see you on Sunday.”

James hung up the phone and exhaled a slow, steadying breath.

“ _I don’t know any Michael_ ,” his grandmother had said. “ _There hasn't been anyone around for miles since Mr. McKinlay died in that hunting accident twenty years ago. He had his picture in the paper and all. They never did find out what happened to him, God rest him. He was torn up awfully. Looked like he’d been mauled, they said. Oh, I still hate to think of him like that, the poor soul._ ”

James went back into the shed. He looked at the fresh plywood and remembered the splintered boards, the wood deeply gouged as though by raking claws.

“ _Jesus, you’re strong_.”

He grabbed the nail gun from the bench — where Michael had left it — and he closed the shed door, snapping the heavy padlock in place.

* * *

“What the fuck am I doing?” James asked himself aloud, not for the first time, as he tramped through the woods, going towards the hills. _Don’t go into the woods_. His gran’s advice came back to him, playing over and over in his mind. _There are wolves in the woods_. “What the fuck am I _thinking_?” But James kept on. Here, the trees grew tall and close together, and little light crept through their tangling branches. The earth below was mostly bare of undergrowth, carpeted thickly with the decaying mulch of many generations of leaves. He was already far out of sight of the cottage and the road. One could believe it would be possible to walk forever and never come out the other side of these looming, crowding trees.

“Michael!” James called out once, but he received no answer but the echo of his own voice. He hadn’t honestly expected one. “It can’t be far. He walked it,” James told himself, and a quailing part of himself asked, _On how many legs?_ “Shut up,” he said sharply. It made him feel better to say it out loud. More assertive. More in control. _Right_.

The house came looming into sight suddenly through a break in the trees. It was a cottage, not unlike his gran’s, but it was clear that no one had lived there in years. The whitewash was cracked and grey, in places exposing mossy stone beneath. The windows that were not broken were encrusted with grime, and part of the roof had fallen in. Every bit of sense that James possessed was telling him to go back the way he’d come, but he moved forward as though under compulsion. He paused, his heart lurching in his chest when, around the side of the house, he saw the deep, broad imprint of an animal’s tracks. _A dog_ , he told himself, but he knew better. The heaviness of the nail gun in his hand was an increasing comfort.

The front door gave way under James’ shoulder, and he stumbled inside several steps before he could halt his momentum. The interior was gloomy, a maze of indistinct shapes which might be the remnants of old furniture, or anything at all. Mingled with the musty scent of leaf mould and mildew was the same wild, musky odor that James had first smelled in Gran’s cottage: the smell of something feral. It was much stronger, here. Unmistakable. This was claimed territory.

Out of the corner of his eye, James saw something move, and he spun, firing the nail gun with a loud _crack!_. A field mouse skittered across the floor and under one of the collapsed ceiling beams, and James exhaled a sigh of relief.

“Is that for me?” The voice — Michael’s voice — was so unexpected that James let out a yell. Michael was a dark shape filling the doorway, and James had no option but to retreat farther inside, raising the nail gun.

“I suppose it is, then,” Michael said with an air of regret. James knew better than to trust its sincerity, but he didn't pull the trigger, either.

“You live here?” James asked, his voice hoarse, his mouth gone dry with fear.

“If you want to call it living,” Michael answered.

“This was — ”

“Mr. McKinlay’s house, yes,” Michael answered the question before James asked. His head cocked quizzically to the side. “Aren't you going to ask me if I killed him?”

James swallowed twice before he could speak. “I don’t really need to, do I?”

“No,” Michael said. His eyes were mirrors, reflecting light. _Like a wolf’s_. “So you spoke to old Gran. I was telling the truth, you know. Or most of it. I was looking after the place. It was just standing there empty, warm and dry, and I thought… why not?”

“How did you know my name?” James asked, wondering how he could ever have been such a trusting fool, and Michael said, “The photo album. It wasn't hard to guess.” James remembered how tenderly Michael had held the framed photograph, how wistful he had seemed looking at it, and he didn't know what to think.

“And now you’re wondering if I’m going to kill you, and here I am, wondering the same,” Michael said.

“Why did you come back?” James asked. “After the first time. You had to know I’d find out.”

“I told you: I was lonesome.” Michael came forward, spreading his long arms as though he meant to enfold James in an embrace. James knew the strength of those arms. He raised the nail gun. Michael froze for an instant of James’ indecision, but he inched forward slowly again. “If I’d wanted to kill you, I could have a hundred times. Ask yourself why I didn't.”

“You wanted… You wanted…” The nail gun wavered in James’ trembling hand.

“You,” Michael said with a smile, his lips splitting open around long, sharp teeth and a red, red tongue.

James fired the nail gun, and Michael reeled back with a cry half caught between a scream and a howl. He retreated, scrabbling, back into the shadow of the collapsed beams, and James remained frozen in place, half in terror and half appalled by what he had just done. From the shadows, he heard animal whines and snarls that sounded like nothing a man could produce, punctuated by the sickening crack of bone and the tearing of flesh. And then a long, chilling silence.

“Michael?” James whispered, hardly daring to breathe. He heard a soft _whuff_ of exhaled air, and the scratch of claws on stone. He saw two glittering points in the darkness: two eyes, reflecting the light. A low growl made the hair stand up on the back of his neck and sent a chill straight through the most primal part of him, but then came a pitiable whine. A great ruddy-furred wolf came out of the shadows, slinking forward on his belly. He lowered his massive head and regarded James with large, lamp-like eyes that, James could have sworn, held hurt.

“I’m sorry,” James found himself saying. “I didn't mean to.” And, against all reason, he held his arms out to the wolf that had, only moments ago, been a man. The wolf crept closer, turning his head to lick fitfully at the bloody fur over his left shoulder where the nail had penetrated.

“Let me,” James said. His fingers combed the coarse, sticky fur, searching for the head of the nail. He knew he’d found it when the wolf gave a sharp, yelping whine, and James jerked his hand back, wary of those teeth, but when the wolf didn't snap, he tried again. He pulled the nail free in a hot spurt of blood, but this time, the wolf didn't whine. He gave a full-body shudder and lay down with his heavy head on James’ lap, those terrible teeth so close to all his vital parts.

“It really is you in there,” James said, and the wolf licked his bloody fingers. James buried them in the wolf’s thick ruff. His heart slowed, his breathing deepened, and the wolf’s tail thumped once against the floor.

“... and I said I wanted your teeth, didn't I.”


End file.
